


Capture It

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, dean's photography on a sleeping aidan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:06:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aidan has a beautiful body. Dean is a photographer. What the hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Capture It

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a small thing for the Aidean fandom. I don't see a lot of art/photography fluff for these two idiots. So yeah, leave some comments/suggestions/whatever. That would be nice. (I'm not good at summarizing or making titles. Sorry about that.) :) Hope you enjoy this candy, kids.

Needless to say, Dean liked watching Aidan sleep. Over mornings waking up beside each other, he had learned to adore the soft rise and fall of Aidan’s chest, how his arm would be placed in some painful angle (sometimes not), or how his dark curls would be a mess across the white pillows. He is in love with the shadows the morning sun draws on the Irishman’s face, and the way he would know it was a peaceful and shameless night because of the breaths of the man that lay beside him.

It is a view anyone would kill for. Luckily, Dean always wakes up first so he gets to see it.

This morning, Aidan was shirtless – tempting and torturous in every way. Nothing happened the night before; maybe only a sinful make-out scene on the bed. An arm was wrapped around Dean’s torso, and, carefully, he removed it and stepped out of the bed. Aidan stirred, must be feeling the empty weight beside him, but didn’t wake. Damn, he’s always the heavy sleeper.

Dean is an artist, and knows expression and emotion like it sings in his veins. There is magic behind capturing a moment, be it behind a lens or painted on a canvas. It was Aidan who was always the inspiration, like he carries some imaginary force that keeps the Kiwi on making art. And damn him, Dean wants to capture this morning scene.

The camera is right on top of the drawer, because Dean is always too lazy to place somewhere more religious. And he turns it on, removing the lens protector, and sets himself beside the bed to get a good angle. He captures Aidan’s dark curls, those closed eyes, the sinful lips. The room filled with only the sound of the camera clicking. Dean moves around the bed for more angles, and for more photos. The shots are stunning, but being a perfectionist, not enough. He needs some kind of explosion, or a godly sign.

Aidan stirred once more, turned his bare back on Dean, the sheets fell a little farther down his hips, right above his ass. The sun manages to be perfect for the moment. Aidan’s figure creates an angular shadow on the rest of the bed, and in the camera, the sun created the perfect lens flare, bursting just on Aidan’s hip. The morning light spilled on Aidan’s curls and down his body too. Aidan’s body is a goddamn miracle, Dean knows this. His back is flawless, save for that traces of scarlet Dean’s fingernails had left on him, which made it even more beautiful.

Dean clicked the camera. Once, then twice to be sure.

He placed the camera on the bedside table, and lay beside his boyfriend. His body curved along Aidan’s, whose back was on him, and he wrapped a possessive arm around the brunet. He trailed kisses along his shoulder blade, traveling up to his neck. “I love you, baby.” He whispered, his lips feathering softly on his warm skin. Aidan groaned, and reached his arm behind him to pull Dean closer.

He blinks open his eyes, straining to see from all the blinding light of the fucking sun. He smiles, whispering lazily, “I love you too, Dean.”

They lost track of how many minutes passed with them just cuddling up on the bed, talking nonsense. The topic went from Claude Monet to Pablo Neruda to sex. And after which, they stopped talking. And what was left for the morning is a tangle of limbs and skin and lips and the white, messy sheets.


End file.
